Lucy Roscoe + Aiko Harman

Wednesday, November 26th, 2008

*Pigeons*

There are pigeons everywhere. 

Pigeons on the stoop, doing the Egyptian.
Pigeons in groups, in rain troughs, bathing.
Pigeons who own the place & know it.
Know that this is the ledge of the window
On which the previous tenant has written “Do not Open, Broken”.
Pigeons who sit there, and stare, as I write pigeon poems:

*    City Doves, punk Rock Pigeons,  
      Shit on the heads of great dead men
      Immortalized in stone.*

Pigeons in the courtyard, pigeons in the square,
Pigeons in swarms, taking aim in mid-air.
Pigeons who could not care less whether
I am trying to get somewhere
In a hurry.
And go on bobbing and weaving,
And puffing their neck feathers and cooing,
And making romantic advances
At inviting lady pigeons,
Taking up the whole damn sidewalk.

 

 

海馬 (Seahorse)

 

your feathered head
is a brilliant mane
[despite what you say.]

fragile elegance
intricate skin
i eye-trace the curlicued
chest of you.

no teeth.
no stomach either.
you suck prey in.
you cock your head,
and suck.

i watch your colors change,
as you bow—  色々な色


to hold you
is to shatter glass,
to loose self (bleed)(ablate)
for tampering with
untouchables.

i am behind a pane.

your lover lays her perfect eggs down before you
and you take them, tuck them inside of you.
you bear the birth—


you, bucking bronco of it—

fight through the water,
with a hummingbird fin.

and when you have finished,
i will enjoy you,
laughing with shoulders
hunched over, above the stones.

at last, you wrap your tail around me.
& i eat you for your sex. 

 

 

 

In the Reference Library

Hushed
we pass notes between one another,
touching.

Each time,
our hands meet like the beginning,
a genesis of electricity.

I ask you in ballpoint,
“Coffee?”
You score through my hand,
scribble something,
slide the scrap
back to me.

Smiling shyly,
I wait for your eyes to catch mine.
You nod,

I unravel
the paper in my fingertips.
“Secret balcony,” it says.

We pack up our belongings,
a muffle of notebooks and nerves,
and I follow you.

 

Poetry by Aiko Harman
Illustration by Lucy Roscoe